


(M)orpheus

by Es_per



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: M/M, You're not ready, a bit of what we used to call lime, and by that i mean physically, book-verse, just sayin, minho is a dumb touch-starved twunk, newt is really hot, they have sex supposedly in the middle of sleeping gladers, you should have read the three books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 06:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18795031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Es_per/pseuds/Es_per
Summary: Minho can't sleep. Fortunately, he doesn't have to spend the night alone, as long as he doesn't turn aroud.





	(M)orpheus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2manyOTPs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=2manyOTPs).



> This is sort of a gift to the previously-named 2manyOTPs on ffnet who asked me many, many years ago, to translate this fic of mine, that was originally written in French. So if you ever come across it, know I've never forgotten about your request!  
> As for you, reader, well I sure hope you enjoy what's next...

It was night, and Minho couldn’t manage to fall asleep. He kept thinking over and over about the events of the previous day.

They had killed Ben.

No, he corrected himself, they had banished him, but it was as good as if. Nobody survives a night in the Maze. But the rules were the rules, and they had only accomplished their duty by exiling the one who used to be a Builder.

However, and although it wasn’t his type, Minho kept seeing the Glader’s horrified face anytime he closed his eyes. Which deeply irritated him, he who never gave in to feelings such as remorse or guilt. No, Minho was strong and proud, too much to even entertain that idea.

Still, he couldn’t sleep.

As he turned over once again in his hammock, he felt the rough cloth extend then return to its initial position after a ghost had sneaked behind his back.  
He was meaning to identify the boy now pressed against his spine, when that boy whispered:

“Don’t turn around.”

He recognised the voice, warm and the tiniest hoarse, as well as the few strands of hair that tickled his nude shoulder, and the feeling of clothing on his skin; and he relaxed. If it was him, all was well.

Newt’s warm breath on his nape made a few of his hairs raise, while the Second’s hands already traced their way to his naked torso, making him shiver. He understood he wouldn’t sleep much of the night.

Newt drew closer to soflty nibble his earlobe, then backed slowly all the while leaving soft kisses along his jugular, the contact of his clothes against Minho’s skin like another caress.

The Runner wanted to turn around and take over, but Newt dissuaded him by slightly pinching the soft skin of his throat with his lips. Minho groaned but obeyed nonetheless: it was rare for his friend to refuse for Minho to get on top, might as well enjoy the –unexpected, but delicious ride.  


That was how their relationship was made of, after all. They weren’t dating or any kind of bullshit like that, but they both knew that their long-lasting friendship offered something more, something special. That a sort of tacit attraction had pushed Newt to kiss Minho for the first time, and Minho to answer it, and that from there had ensued those kind of moments that belonged only to them.  
They had no need to put words on it. Feeling was enough.

And right now Minho was feeling pretty shucking good. Shivers were running all across his body as Newt’s lips went down, as his fingers traced slow circles on his torso, as his toned body pressed against his slightly more muscular own. Minho sensed a moan come up his throat and had to bite his lip as not to let it out; the dozen of hammocks around them and the same number of Gladers along with it dissuaded him from emitting the slightest sound.

“Shuck.” he thought when the Second, having found a sensitive spot near his clavicle, started sucking on his skin. Why did Newt have to know him so well? For a split second, Minho worried about the hickey he would have to wear tomorrow, before judging that tomorrow was far away, and that anyway Newt’s fingers caressing his stomach, near his belt, were far too skilled to allow himself to ignore them.

Came an instant of Bliss when Newt nibbled one last time the base of his neck now run by a delicious tingling, then nothing. The Runner was still sensing a presence behind him, but the touch on his back had indeed disappeared. He held back a frustrated whine.

He _needed_ Newt’s body against his, his hands all over him, his mouth devouring his skin with burning kisses; because as crazy as it sounded, although they had seen each other that very morning, he had missed him. Missed him as if he had been gone for days, like a falling out on an argument or a misunderstanding, like a throbbing ache you obsess over and that eventually kills you, as if Minho had stopped living waiting for him to come back.  
He didn’t remember having exchanged any words with his friend that morning, he couldn’t even remember his day, he couldn’t remember anything else but that emptiness ever tugging at his heart that he couldn’t find a reason for. That emptiness, like the intolerable space between their bodies, was freezing.

He considered turning around, craving to feel once again the heat of Newt’s body, but his friend snuggled back against him. Minho realised he had simply backed away to take off his shirt, as testified the unique sensation of burning bare skin on his.

“Don’t turn around, Minho.” Newt soflty whispered in the crook of his nape, his mere breath enough to electrify every and each of Minho’s senses, who couldn’t even budge an inch.

He couldn’t believe it. Never, ever had Newt been able to reduce him to a mess so easily, with so little moves. He usually required a bit more time, a bit more action and maneuvers to achieve a result as much as close.

But right now, Minho felt himself melting, disappearing under Newt’s kisses, caresses, husky exhalations, as if Newt had been gifted with skills able to make that mess of such a strong Runner.

“An angel, Newt.” Minho murmured in-between two sighs. “You’re a shucking angel.”

Newt giggled and simply replied by pressing his pelvis against his friend’s lower back, and Minho couldn’t hold back a jagged inhalation. He bit the inside of his cheek, what was he getting so sensitive for? He wasn’t a shucking virgin!

Newt didn’t give him time to berate himself any longer, though, since he was apparently adamant to prove he was also evil. To that purpose, he untied Minho’s belt and slowly slid one hand down his pants.

There were no fireworks, but rather some kind of fog that started to dance before his half-closed eyes. While Newt was taking the matter in his own hands, Minho thought he’d seen flashing images in the blur of his mind, before realising that they were in fact fragmented and discontinued memories. Weird, since he couldn’t remember anything.  
Scenes were unfolding behind his eyelids, noise was echoing inside his head, too evanescent to mean anything, but too important to dismiss.

Minho suddenly opened his eyes when Newt motioned to take off his underwear. He pretended to let him do, before grabbing his wrist and stopping the blond who jumped a bit.

“Newt” Minho firmly called out. “Why don’t you want me to turn around?”

“Isn’t it better that way?” Newt responded playfully, kissing his biceps.  
Although the touch made him shiver, as well as did the warm fingers on the top of his thigh and the pelvis against his lower back, Minho didn’t give in and replied in a tone that sounded more like an order than a request:

"Let me turn around.”

The fingers on his skin became more hesitant.

“Come on, Min’. Don’t spoil the fun.” Newt tried to tease. But Minho only frowned and still didn’t release the grip on his wrist.

“Newt, I’m gonna turn around.”

“No...” Newt murmured. “Please, Minho. Please.”

But Minho suddenly didn’t care anymore. Something was wrong, he knew it. He had to remember, he wanted to remember, although every fiber of his being screamed at him to stop.

He turned around.

Newt was there.

But his long hair was dirty and unkempt, his sweatshirt that he had supposedly taken off was torn, his limp much more pronounced than usual, he was stained with dried blood from head to toes, and in the middle of his forehead was, deep scarlet among reds, the wound from a bullet.

He smiled weakly in response to his friend’s haggard face, and never had anyone looked so sad.

“I had told you not to turn around, Minho.”

Minho couldn’t move. He was paralysed, frozen in place at this sight.  
He remembered.

_Thank you for being my friends. Bye._

Newt pointing a Launcher at him, index shaking with rage on the trigger, eyes full of furious tears.

_I’m a Crank, Minho! I’m a bloody Crank! Why can’t you get that through your thick skull?_

Indeed, why? Why had he forgotten?  
There was no more Maze, no more Glade, no more Second and no more Runner.  
Instead there had been the Scorch, the Haven, the Glue and the Leader.  
And now there was nothing.

He looked at Newt getting closer, felt a hand as cold as the nothingness touch his cheek.  
Newt left an agonisingly tender kiss on his lips.  
He caressed one last time Minho’s shape with his deep brown eyes before being engulfed in the darkness.

 

Minho woke up, a single tear rolling down his cheek, in the Paradise where angels die.


End file.
